A PET’S GRACEFUL GOODBYE

The morning was sunny and temperate, the kind I told myself Charlie loved, though he was fine with all weather, even snow that reached his chest, which happened often since he was Corgi-sized, but with long black fur and, being a rescue, no pedigree.

A beautiful morning. And sadly, Charlie’s last. Weeks before, the vet had said he’d aged past a quality of life, but, well, I just couldn’t. For 15 years, starting soon after my divorce, he’d been my mostly companion, as I liked to call him.

So I held out for a few days, then a week, even as he declined further, but it gets to a point where you see it’s an act of love.

Mark Patinkin

Columnist The Providence Journal USA TODAY NETWORK

Mark Patinkin's mixed breed rescue, Charlie.

MARK PATINKIN/THE PROVIDENCE JOURNAL; ILLUSTRATION BY BRITTANY JACKSON/USA TODAY NETWORK

Of course, I was going to have it done at his longtime vet in East Providence, Povar, where they adored Charlie despite his being a difficult patient. Something happened when he was younger, so it took two techs to hold him for a shot. He was a sweetheart a moment later, but never a fan of those appointments.

Too bad, I thought, that we couldn’t bid him farewell in familiar surroundings.

And then, as I was facing the decision, a friend told me about Jane Linden.

A veterinarian and Brown grad, Jane spent 20 years running Providence River Animal Hospital, but in 2024 she moved on to a new practice helping families say goodbye at home. It’s called Pets at Peace, and it's her full-time focus.

I sent her a message, explaining about Charlie, and that I was ready, thinking it would take time to hear back. Minutes later, she answered, saying she was in New York but could come by the next morning.

And now she was here, arriving with her tech, Michelle Sylvester, who’s been with her for decades, following Jane to the new venture. Right away, I could tell they were meant for this, carrying with them not just medical bags but a profound sense of grace.

They do three or four goodbyes a day, spacing them in a way that allows as much time as a family needs. That’s part of the gift Jane gives — she understands how to minister.

For the first 20 minutes or more, Jane and Michelle asked my adult daughter, Ariel, and me who Charlie was.

Oh, as much a part of the family as any of us. We adopted him as a young rescue that no one else wanted. We were told he’d been given back to the pound twice in his native Arkansas, but he made it to Rhode Island by way of an extraordinary network that ships dogs from kill states to more benevolent ones.

That’s when I found him, on one of those pet adopbecame tion websites that’s a bit like Match.com — you put in your ZIP code and see who in the area is available and cute. Charlie was an 18 month-old mix, the only clue of his lineage being purple marks on his tongue, a Chow trait, but aside from that, we never really knew what he was.

Except ours. And, quickly, we became his. When I’d let him into the backyard, he’d be back at the glass door in minutes — how dare I keep him from being at my side. Which is where he spent most hours of most days. God forbid I closed the bedroom door at night — he’d scratch until I gave in and up he’d leap onto the bed; yes, I was that dog owner.

And oh, my God, the kitchen. Even if I’d tiptoe in while he was sleeping, he’d sense it and follow me from fridge to pantry so closely that his nose bumped against my calf. OK, OK — here’s a treat, which he’d inhale, skipping the part where you’re supposed to chew.

During my own meals, he’d paw my thigh nonstop, and as I kept giving him bites, I wondered who conditioned him to be like that.

And woe to any of us who made the mistake of leaving a box of carryout on a low coffee table unattended.

We shared such things with Jane and Michelle — and also how often our family group-chat began with me texting, “You won’t believe what Charlie just did.” Followed by photos. And now I wondered — without him here, what will we have to talk about?

Dogs tend to age slowly, and then quickly. Even a month ago, he was making it up stairs and into my car, but no longer. And now he was barely eating.

Jane nodded — she of course knew the signs. During her decades as an office vet, she had done occasional end-of-life visits to homes, but after the pandemic, with a surge in pet adoptions, her practice too busy for that.

But she knew how hard it was for folks to say goodbye in a place where their dogs were wary.

So she created Pets for Peace. She is 63 now and will tell you this has been the most meaningful of work. She does three or four home visits a day, needing weekends to recharge because of the emotion of it. She blocks in well over an hour, knowing it’s not just a procedure, but a life milestone. She has made visits where 10 people are present, including friends.

And so it was for us, with my other far-flung adult kids pausing in their jobs to join us on FaceTime. I even held up my cell so they could chat with Jane.

After a half-hour, we were ready, or as ready as one can be.

There would be two shots, the first an initial step that Jane said offers “beautiful sedation.” Not being a fan of needles, Charlie rallied to resist. It was somehow comforting that even at the end, Charlie was still Charlie.

It soon took effect, and we helped him lie down on some bedding my daughter had made for him on the carpet, all of us kneeling around him, Jane and Michelle as well.

And still, there was no rush. Only when you’re ready, said Jane.

We talked about a part of her service called aquamation, where, instead of cremation, there’s a waterbased system of chemical breakdown, and yes, we said, we’d like Charlie returned to us.

For 10 or more minutes, everyone said their goodbyes as I tried to be the strong one and not break down, because that’s a dad’s job, but I failed.

I had worried that being present might make for a difficult memory, but because of Jane and Michelle's gifts, it was the opposite. They gave us peace, and Charlie peace, too, and being present through this together deepened our bonds as a family.

Afterward, as we watched from the doorway, they personally carried Charlie to their car.

The weather was still sunny and temperate. The kind of day Charlie loved. mpatinki@providencejournal.com

Linden

Sylvester